Maybe this Christmas
by Loreyulia
Summary: John Watson lost his father, one year ago on Christmas day. On one particular Christmas, he meets a young Genius by the name of Sherlock Holmes up in a tree, and wrestling with an errant kite. The two become acquainted, and spend the day in one another's company; only to part ways. Years go by, and John reflects upon the many different Christmas's life has to give him.


_**Disclaimer: I do not own BBC's Sherlock, or the original work by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I merely borrow, and tamper around with the plot, until I am satisfied of the slash-alicious outcome ;) **_

_**A/N: Hello every one, and Merry Christmas! I have been a bit M.I.A. lately here on fanfiction, for reasons I will choose not to discuss. However, the plotbunny ghost appeared to me recently, and held me at gunpoint until I wrote this. It's a Sherlock AU, bending the story to explore a new and different way Sherlock and John meet. I will definitely pull a few ideas from the original source material, but it will mostly include Sherlock story. **_

_**This isn't a songfic, however I was heavily influenced by the chorus of Shane Dawson's song, Maybe this Christmas. I've been in a rather cynical mood this Holiday season, so the song won't leave my head... **_

_**Any way, please enjoy the story, and have a wonderful Christmas, and a happy new year! **_

Maybe this Christmas

i

Flashing lights. Sirens blaring– a woman crying.

The flighty, surreal hum in his head as he watches it all through a haze of numb detachment. It is cold outside, unbearably so– but he does not feel the icy bite of the wind against his cheeks. He only senses the hard thud of his heart in his chest, and a dense ball of lead weighted in the depths of his stomach.

John Watson sways on his feet– struck with the impression that this was all some horrid, lucid dream. It feels real, and yet it does not.

He moves forward, and the sensation is some thing akin to floating; as if one moment he is aware of moving, and the next it is more like he is standing still– unaware of how he had walked so far.

"Sir... SIR!" A firm hand is pressing into John's left shoulder, unyielding, but squeezing sympathetically. "I'm sorry, but ya' can't go any further."

It is in that moment that John is snapped away from the dreamy floating in his head, and fully coerced back into cold, hard reality. He notices the black and yellow caution tape, sees the shards of shiny reflectors and crunched up bike metal– all glistening in the phosphorous glow of the street lamps. His red-rimmed eyes finally catch sight of the reason why he was there.

A pool of liquefied garnet spreads along the asphalt– but, that is the poetic way John Watson chooses to perceive it. It was much easier than admitting to himself that it was blood... his father's blood. But the pale, lifeless body strewn before a cherry red double Decker was a testament to the reality he did not want to face. There were people gathered all around the scene; whispering, and gawking– all just glad this wasn't happening to them.

John hated them.

"Are ya' gonna be all right lad?" The police officer looks concerned, _truly_ concerned– not just morally obligated to feign sympathy. John reluctantly tears his eyes, big and wide, and welling with tears, away from his father's corpse.

"I-I... how did? I..." he cuts himself off, as a choking sob gurgles somewhere between his heart and his esophagus.

The police officer opens his mouth to reply, when a woman with coppery hair enfolds her son in an iron-clad embrace. She is sobbing, and clinging on for dear life– and John holds his trembling mother tight, as he slowly breaks down himself.

Through the gasping lung fulls of air, and the tear soaked wails, John looks despondently toward the indigo sky and notices the snow beginning to fall. He can't help but think bitterly to himself in that moment, that at least it would be a white Christmas.

–One year later–

ii

Harry was drunk again, and his mother was shut up in her room, crying.

John could not handle the oppressive atmosphere any longer– so, with a quick trip up the stairs into his room, he threw on an olive green jacket and grabbed his sketchbook and pencils; stuffing them into a brown, canvas over the shoulder bag. With out a word to his inebriated sister, or his grieving mother, he left the house and made his way to the nearest tube station.

An hours ride later found him in the heart of London, close by the medical University where he studied– Bart's Hospital. There was a park nearby, where he liked to take his lunch breaks on warmer days, and where, if the mood struck him, he would bring his sketchbook and whittle away the hours.

John never put much thought into what he wanted to draw, he just let his fingers sketch lines and circles– all sorts of shapes really; until he had replicas of the buildings around him, or charcoal faces spread across the pristine sheets.

Today, he found a wide bench to sit upon, overlooking a gushing fountain, and a neat little path. There were a few Mother's with their children nearby, chatting away while the kids played tag. An elderly man was shuffling along the path, with a red and white walking stick tap-tapping in front of him, while a Lesbian couple walked hand in hand a few feet ahead– blissful smiles tattooed on their young faces.

John soaked it all in. The crisp, slightly damp air. The falling red and orange leaves– the happy faces. It all caused a bitter sort of melancholy to settle in his chest.

This whole month, he had tried ardently to avoid these feelings. It was why he refused to string up the fairy lights, or purchase a nice evergreen for them all to decorate. Those were all traditions that he used to uphold with his father... it just didn't seem right without him there to crack corny Christmas puns, and make the Watson family apple cider after long hours spent in the freezing cold decorating the house for the season. But now, in the very heart of London, it was impossible to avoid the Christmas carols and the mistletoe– the happy families, and good cheer.

It was hateful, how much he had come to despise a time of year that he once treasured above all else.

With a sigh, John decidedly snapped open his bag, and retrieved his sketchbook and a light graphite pencil. He opened the book, and flipped through it until he found a fresh, untouched page. He frowned, not really knowing yet what he wanted to draw; so, he idly started to sketch one of his favorite Bond femme fatales.

The longer he spent sketching, the more his scowl gradually morphed into a smile. His piece was turning out better than he had hoped; the buxom blonde alluring as ever. Just as he was starting on the shading for her pouty lips, he heard the deep, rumbling voice of a man shout, "Buggering HELL!"

Startled, John's attention was torn away from his work, and focused back to the world around him. And then, he was confused... because, there was not a single soul within plain sight, no matter how he twisted and turned his head to look. With brows knitted in confusion, he decided that maybe he had imagined the voice, and returned to his sketch— only to be interrupted once more.

"For fuck's sake, how can the tail become so ridiculously entangled in a fucking TREE BRANCH?"

John looked around once more and then, not really knowing why, he looked up.

There, in a tree not more than a yard away, a man was perched upon a sturdy looking branch; fighting with the tail of a bright red kite that looked hopelessly tangled. John looked around again, trying to find the child that the kite might belong to– but, as was before, there was no one else around save for him and the odd stranger in a tree.

It was one of the most absurd sights John had ever witnessed in his entire life– and that was saying some thing, considering he once saw an X-ray of a man who had a light bulb stuck up his rectum...

Exasperated beyond belief, he left his position upon the bench, and walked briskly over to the rather large tree. John stopped a few feet away, and looked up; arms crossed over his broad chest and a bewildered smile dancing at the edges of his lips. He cleared his throat just a bit before saying, "Can I help you with any thing?"

The man peered down, his impossibly sculpted cupid's bow mouth contorting into a smirk. John watched his brightly colored eyes assess him; roving back and forth quickly, and then settling– as if they were merely scanners and they had collected all the data that they could. When the man finally deigned to give John a response, his voice came out like crushed gravel, and held the most imperious tone he had ever heard.

"I highly doubt with your mediocre stature that you could be of much use to me– unless, perhaps, you fetched a ladder so as to climb up here and assist me with untangling this _damnable _kite!"

The words came out so knife sharp and lightening fast, that it took John a few moments to realize that he had been insulted.

"Excuse me– did you just simultaneously belittle me, and ask for my help, all in the same breath?" He set the man with a stormy scowl; chin raised in a manner that said, '_please, do continue being a complete and utter cock– I'm dying to punch some one today.' _

"It would appear so. Now, about that ladder?"

Quite honestly, John was torn between trying to climb that damn tree just to prove the haughty arsehole wrong, or merely walking away to watch him fall out of the Sycamore, flat onto his arse from afar. However, he did neither of those things. John just smiled, a deceptively serene expression as he asked, "How did you even manage to get a kite caught up in a tree? Aren't you a little too _old_ to be playing with Elementary school toys?"

The man rolled his cyan hued eyes, and muttered some thing that suspiciously sounded like 'dull' before he replied,

"Hm, I was not aware of there being an age limit to the usage of man made objects, or otherwise. If you must know, and I'm guessing your feeble brain and natural human curiosity could be a deadly combination, and will do me little good... so, I'll explain in terms even you can understand. I am conducting an experiment to prove if a kite can be utilized as a murder weapon. Now, are you going to stand there, gaping up at me like a dying codfish all day, or are you going to run along and fetch a ladder? If you choose the former, than good day to you– I have no time to waste on idiots."

"Should I be calling the police?" John was beginning to feel a little worried for himself in the strange mans presence, with no one else around to hear him scream if some thing should... happen.

"Oh, for the love of– why do they always assume _I'm _a murderer? You're all so vapid and one dimensional in your thought processes, it's almost painful to witness. If you would just _think,_ then maybe you could hypothesize that I'm a Yarder investigating a murder, or a Private Detective– but no, it's always, 'I always knew that boy was a bit off, no real surprise he'd kill some one'."

The bizarre man's voice rose in volume as he spoke, a bitter sneer twisting his attractive mouth into a grotesque shape. He huffed in annoyance, and looked away; muttering to himself as he returned his attention to the task at hand.

It only occurred to John in that moment, how utterly young the man looked– in fact, he was strongly suspicious that he was merely a very tall, gangly teenage boy. When the boy wasn't hurling acid flavored insults at a million miles per minute, and sulked instead, it was so apparent how young he really was. It was also quite apparent that the boy viewed and carried himself as some sort of Genius, and that he kept himself apart from the rest of the world.

And well, if people tended to judge the boy so harshly as to believe he could kill because of his differences and flaws, then John pitied him. He knew what it was like to feel lonely, ostracized from a world that kept on spinning, even if it felt like he had fallen off.

With a sigh, and a brief shake of his head that accompanied a fond smile, John backed away a few paces– and then made a running leap up, and grabbed onto the nearest tree branch. With a small amount of difficulty, he hauled himself onto the branch, straddling it precariously before inching forward slowly. By the time he made it up to the stranger's position, he was huffing and puffing, but grinning like a complete and utter fool.

"There... hah-ah... I didn't need that ladder after all, you wanker." John's stout chest heaved with exertion, and he observed how the stranger's ever changing eyes stayed fixated upon it.

Slowly, the blue that turned to green, which at some points melded into gold gaze met his own. John offered the boy a carefree half smile, in hopes that he could earn a bit of kindness in return for his efforts. "Yes... well, um you have proven me wrong it seems. Um, do you mind lending me a hand?"

It was only a tad bit jarring to watch the boy act so meek, compared to his haughty tirades from earlier. _'Not all bad then...' _John thought to himself, as he tried to puzzle the boy out. "Well, that's why I bloody well scaled this tree, now isn't it?"

That caused the strange boy to smile; this tiny, barely discernable tilt of the lips that just looked so unbearably timid; as if he wasn't used to such jubilant expressions, and it was some thing rare and marvelous. "I suppose it is."

–

It took a frustratingly long time to untangle the kite tail from the twigs and leaves it so intimately twined itself in. The whole time, John toiled in comfortable silence with the stranger as they worked together quite seamlessly to unravel the jigsaw puzzle that was their problem. He gained a few fresh scratches on his fingers from the ordeal, but nothing some plasters and antiseptic wouldn't fix in a couple days.

The battered, but still surprisingly whole kite now remained clutched in the boy's slender fingers; a joyful flush high upon his sharp cheek bones. "Thank you, I appreciate your help. You– you really didn't have to assist me, after the way I spoke to you. I'm.. sorry."

"It's fine," John waved a hand flippantly, and smiled in that inescapably charming way he was known for. "We just got off on the wrong foot, and that's fine. It's all fine."

The stranger's expression was priceless; his heart shaped lips parted comically as he looked at John like he had sprouted a second head. It made John laugh– a sound which was pleasant, and bright and painfully foreign to his own ears– watching such a cold, aristocratic face morph into a caricature of what it once was.

All at once he held his hand out to the younger man and said, "The name's John Watson, it's a pleasure to meet you." John steadied himself with his other hand, and looked at the brunet boy expectantly; his gaze sweeping back and forth from his outstretched hand, and those otherworldly eyes.

With a great deal of hesitance, and no small amount of confusion written on his face, the stranger reached out his pale, elegant fingers and interlocked them with John's. "Sherlock Holmes, and the pleasure is all mine. Though, when people meet me for the first time, they usually don't say that..."

"What do they usually say?" John's crooked little half smile managed to give him a rumpled sort of expression, which just seemed to highlight his amiable personality.

Sherlock smirked to himself only briefly before he replied, "Piss off." And that set John Watson into another fit of untamable giggles.

"I— ah, hgh hah, I can't imagine why..."

"Well, most people are idiots anyway," Sherlock sniffed, and managed to look like a pompous lord– even while clutching a children's kite, and with dead leaves all tangled up in his curly dark chocolate brown hair.

There was silence then, as the two studied each other rather intensely. There was an oddly palpable sort of chemistry charging the air between them; some thing akin to an ionic bond. _'God he's bloody beautiful for a bloke...' _John thought to himself, his frigid cheeks warming in shame.

Sherlock's captivating eyes narrowed just a fraction, a cipher roiling in their ocean-like depths before it sunk below the waves. "Would you like to join me for some thing hot to drink? I'd hate for you to catch cold, after all the assistance you so kindly gave me, John Watson."

Clearing his throat, and grinning a little nervously, John replied, "I uh– yeah, no I'd love that." Sherlock smirked, and then pushed himself off of the tree branch; landing gracefully like an oversized house cat on the damp earth below.

His navy blue Belstaff fluttered regally behind him as he walked away, sending an amused, "Are you coming John?" over his shoulder.

With a mad grin, and disbelieving shake of his head, John followed suit; thumping heavily onto the ground below, and taking off after his strange new companion.

–

They found a shabby sort of café a few blocks down, and sat down at a table by a large bay window overlooking the busy streets outside. The atmosphere was quiet, and a little awkward while they waited for a waiter to take their orders; John idly drumming his fingers on the table to some inane tune in his head, and Sherlock silently observing every one and every thing around him.

A mischievous smile quirked at Sherlock's lips after a moment, and his focus settled once more upon John. "So, you're a medical student."

John looked up abruptly at that, startled and some what bewildered by the younger man's statement. "I– y-yes, I am... how the bloody hell did you know that? I swear, if you're some sort of stalker—"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, leveling John with a look that practically screamed _you're an idiot._ "When you opened your bag to put away your sketch book, I saw your medical handbook for first years... it's not rocket science to notice details you know."

"Erm... right," John flushed, embarrassed over his outlandish reaction.

"There are other ways though, that I could figure out your profession. How you live, what you've done today– I call it, 'the science of deduction.' No one ever really believes me though, but that's the sort of world we live in today; where people only see what they want to, and don't try to observe the truth." Sherlock looked all the world like some Edwardian character, doomed to a life of suffering as he propped his chin upon his open palm, and gazed all melancholic out the window.

For some reason, John believed Sherlock's words– after all, there were people in this world who really were right proper geniuses in their own way. "Right, so... what did I have for breakfast?" He smiled as Sherlock's cyan gaze locked with his once more; and a little bubble of warmth bloomed in his chest to see the eager light that danced in Sherlock's eyes because of him.

"Toast with strawberry jam. You have crumbs on your jumper still, and a tiny smudge of jam still on the right corner of your mouth– obviously you left your house in a rush this morning, otherwise you would have noticed."

"Strawberry, why strawberry?" John leaned in, smiling coyly.

"Because it's reddish color in hue... why? Did I miss some thing?"

"Well, I mean you got it all right, 'cept for the fact it was raspberry."

Sherlock grunted, and looked adorably ruffled at that. "Raspberry... it's always _some thing!_"

John smirked a little teasingly, as he wiped off the jam residue with a napkin. "Thank you for telling me in your own _subtle_ way that I looked like a little kid too eager to bother with the jam still stuck to my face."

"Think nothing of it," Sherlock waved his free hand around absently, as a deep chuckle reverberated in his slim chest. It really did make John feel special when he put _that_ smile on the aloof boy's face; as if he and he alone lit up Sherlock's day. Which was absolutely absurd in retrospect, seeming as they just met, and knew next to nothing about one another... well, at least on John's end.

He had the vague impression that Sherlock knew more about him than he was really comfortable with, what with his uncanny perception and intelligence.

"Here you are, fish n' chips dears and your tea's." The middle aged waitress set the food between them, and smiled flirtatiously at Sherlock, before heading off to attend to other customers.

"God that looks good," John groaned, as he immediately started to tuck in to his chips.

Sherlock's gaze slid down John's body, going completely unnoticed by him. "Indeed, it does." He replied, before following suit and snatching up a couple chips for himself.

–

They were there for a long time, chatting and playing little games of deduction in which Sherlock almost always won, but occasionally John surprisingly would notice some thing quicker. They laughed, and volleyed dry little quips off of one another as if they had been friends since the beginning of time. Where John first thought that spending so much time with such an enigmatic stranger could end in an awkward state of forced laughter and feigned smiles, he was proven quite wrong. Sherlock never had a single _dull_ thing to say; even if John could not completely wrap his head around the Genius' tirades about physics, or Plato– it didn't matter. Watching the flinty ice that sculpted the younger man's interesting features melt away, now that– that's what mattered.

The hours had flown by with out care, as the two young men stayed cocooned in their own little world. Eventually though, as the saying goes, all good things must come to an end.

Sherlock and John had been there long enough, for a change in staff; and so when they were accosted by the new waiter, it left a bitter taste in John's mouth.

"Hello, I'm Nathan and I'll be your new server. Would you two like to... _share _a dessert this evening?" It wasn't the words exactly that set John off, it was the tone and the look of disgust that curled the young waiter's lips as he said them.

"Oh, no we're not togeth–"

John cut Sherlock off though, reaching his hand across the table to cup those long fingers in his own. "I was thinking of the treacle tart, what about you love?" John looked up to the waiter with a calm, benign smile stretching his lips; but his eyes spoke of challenge and how he was not afraid to punch the git square in the mouth if he said anything else.

"Um... yes, that sounds good." Sherlock's cheeks were gradually turning pink and he couldn't meet John's gaze.

Nathan the waiter jotted that down with a slight scowl, and muttered, "Will that be all?"

"Yes, it will. I would ask for another tea, but the first one was so abysmal that I don't think I'll press my luck." The waiter shot John a dirty look, before nodding tersely and heading off to fill the order. Sherlock's fingers twitched against the rough palm encasing them, bringing John's attention back to the present.

"Er, sorry about that mate," John mumbled awkwardly, while pulling his hand away.

Sherlock merely studied his face thoughtfully before saying in response, "You're not gay. Why did you do that then? You had no way of knowing that–" he cut himself off, looking away as an odd mix of gratitude and self-loathing swirled about in his expressive eyes.

John cocked his head to the side, realizing in that moment that he had stuck up for Sherlock on more than just a base level of ignorant bullying– some one assuming that two men alone in a restaurant enjoying one another's company, were an item. No, this was _personal _for the young man. "Sherlock," John's tone was level, but commanding; demanding the younger man's attention. He only continued with what he had to say, when those cyan eyes met his once more.

"I don't have to be gay, to want to stand up to people like him. People who judge because they don't want to, or can't understand the love two people can share, regardless of gender. So what if the prat thinks less of me now, at least I can make him intensely uncomfortable while I shove treacle tart down your throat, and make eyes at you."

Like the sun bursting forth from behind dark grey storm clouds, Sherlock Holmes' answering smile seemed to light up the tiny world the two had created separate from every one else. "Only on one condition, _love._" Sherlock purred, his vibrant eyes hooding in the most alluring fashion John had ever witnessed from any one attempting 'bedroom eyes.'

"Yeah, and what's that?"

"I get to call you daddy," Sherlock smirked coyly, and then they both dissolved into a fit of uncontrollable giggles.

–

John made good on his promise to make that prat of a waiter as intensely uncomfortable as possible, as he spoon fed Sherlock globs of cream and made intense eye sex with the young man all the while. They left the café an hour later, laughing so hard that they had to lean against each other for support.

"Hah, oh God I wish I could have a picture of that twat's face when I wiped the clotted cream off your lips and licked it off my own fingers; I swear his eyes practically bugged out of his skull!"

"John Watson," Sherlock almost had to wheeze out the older boy's name through his fits of laughter, "you are incorrigible."

"I do so try," he replied, as they finally decided to meander through the snowy London streets aimlessly. They fell into a comfortable silence as they walked, and admired the freshly fallen snow that reflected the multi-colored Christmas lights strung up practically everywhere.

It was... _nice_ John reflected, nice to have a companion on this dark day.

They walked, and talked about pointless things like the reason why snow was white and the traditions behind Christmas lights. They talked about the stars, and how John believed Sherlock's eyes held signs of heterochromia. And finally, their quiet conversations turned deeper, more personal.

"Excuse the turn in my interest, but... why are you here wandering the streets on Christmas day with a complete stranger, instead of at home celebrating with your family? Isn't that what normal people do?"

John gave Sherlock a fond grin, already picking up on the boy's quirks and way of speaking. "Well, us _normal_ people usually do. It's... it's not that I don't want to enjoy Christmas with my family, it's just... hard you know? See, my dad... he got hit by a bus on his way home from work last year, on this very day. He was working over time, just so he could buy us all a present, since my tuition that following semester wasn't going to be cheap and we were tight with money.

"I used to spend every year with him, putting up the fairy lights and laughing so hard we could barely get the job done some times, he was a funny man. Now there isn't any laughter in the house... it's just mum crying, and dosing herself on antidepressants and my sister dosing herself on girls and booze. I'm in a weird place these days, where I hate to be around people who can't find the will to smile, but hating all those who can. Today... I just couldn't handle being in that house– that house that used to be warm, and perfect every year on Christmas, but now it's not."

He shrugged when he finished, feeling slightly embarrassed that he could share all this with a complete stranger, and not with some of his closest friends.

"I am... sorry about your loss, John." The words were halting, and a little stiff, but John knew they were sincere.

"Thank you..." he replied, giving Sherlock a grateful smile. "So uh... why are you here then, if you don't mind my asking?"

Sherlock looked away, his nose and cheeks warming into a delicate pink color, but he did give John the courtesy of a response. "My problems seem so insignificant compared to yours... I hope you don't mind that I shall come off as a petulant child when I say it is because my _brother_ is home for the Holiday's, and it put me in a right foul mood. He always, _always_ makes me feel like a toddling child compared to him... while he stuffs his fat face with cake, and mocks me for my inability at dealing with people... as if it's the most useful skill to have. It doesn't help that my parents think the moon and the stars of him, while they subject me to mundane therapy sessions to figure out, 'what's going on in that funny little head of yours.'"

"Well," John paused, choosing his words carefully because Sherlock looked so young, and vulnerable after sharing some thing so personal about himself. "If it's any consolation, I rather enjoy your company, even if you can say some insensitive things from time to time. And I... well I think you are fine, just the way you are, Sherlock; funny name and all."

They had stopped walking, crowded together in an abandoned alley way as they stared straight into one another's eyes with a sort of heat and intensity that was unrivaled by mere mortals. "John..." Sherlock's deep, rumble of a voice came out like it was made of shattered glass, his gaze wandering around the shorter man's upturned face; lost and trying so damn hard to find his way back to shore.

He moved forward, his long, calloused fingers melding to the contours of John's stubbly cheek, right before he stole a kiss.

An odd sort of thrill ran down John's spine, to feel that sculpted mouth press wetly against his own; warm, and very soft. He didn't know why he was letting this stranger– this _boy_– kiss him. He'd never really wanted to kiss another man before, but Sherlock's lips tasted soft and sweet like lemon and clotted cream, and dear god John Watson _loved_ how it felt to kiss that mad genius.

A breathy moan caught in his throat, while his pulse felt like it was on a runaway train– but with that, the clock struck midnight, and the spell was broken.

Sherlock pulled away, his eyes opening heavily against the weight of what he had done. "I'm uh..." his delightfully pink tongue swiped up the moisture on his lips, "I'm sorry John, I don't know what I was thinking."

"No Sherlock it's fine, it's all fi–"

He just shook his head, and turned his back on John, already walking away briskly with that damn coat trailing behind him like the tail of that stupid red kite Sherlock chucked in a bin after all that hard work untangling it from a tree.

However, right before he turned a corner, to leave John wanting and confused– Sherlock's resonating voice echoed out, "Merry Christmas, John."

–Four years later–

iii

John had finally graduated from Bart's, with tuition debts his family had no way of paying for. If he wanted a career, he would have to transfer to another university, that he knew he could not afford. So, when he announced his intentions of joining the Military, no one was really all that surprised.

He started training right after Christmas, because of course like most life altering things that occurred for him, it had to be around that bloody holiday.

That bloody holiday that had him spending freezing hours in a park each year, just to see if he could catch a glimpse of dark curly hair, or a trailing navy blue Belstaff on a slender figure.

He wasn't necessarily _in love_ with the stranger named Sherlock Holmes, but John could begrudgingly admit, as he curled up under his covers that Christmas night four years ago, that he had felt strangely empty at the thought of never seeing him again.

That's why, even though this was one of the coldest Christmas's on record for London in quite some time, he stayed sat up in a giant Sycamore tree, hoping Sherlock would be there. It was his last chance, his last hope... because tomorrow he belonged to Queen and Country, and John wasn't sure if he'd ever get the chance to come home.

–Seven years later–

iv

Friends were made, friends were lost in equal measure out on the battle field. It was no different, even on a Holiday that promoted peace, and good will toward man.

John was deployed to Africa, amidst all the turmoil and bloodshed, and utter madness. His hands trembled only the slightest bit, as he sewed up a severe bullet wound with blood slick hands.

Later, after hours of enduring tortured screams from men and women suffering from agonizing burns, bullet wounds, missing limbs– John collapsed on his thin, straw mat and curled into his lumpy pillow.

He cried then, cried for all the lives he could not save, and the ones he did.

He cried, to remember a Christmas spent with a loving father, and a stranger whose name he could no longer remember.

–Six years later–

v

"Ah-hghhh, ahhh..." John cried out, as one of his brother's in arms, slung his body over one shoulder, and took off at a run through the arid dunes of Afghanistan.

With bleary focus, he watched his own blood decorate the pale sand below, as his shoulder throbbed and burned. "Don't worry Watson," he heard Connolly shout over the roaring wind inside his head, "you won't die today, not if I can help it."

John smiled weakly at that, before the darkness of unconsciousness claimed him.

–

Through fevered awakenings, and tumultuous dreams, John Watson recalled summers by the lake in Hyde Park– as his sister taught him how to swim, while his parents stayed ashore watching and laughing from afar. Winters spent waiting for the ghost of a young man, never to appear.

Memories coalesced into a confusing kaleidoscope of sound, and colors.

Lights flashing. Sirens blaring– a woman crying. Blood pooling along the asphalt, blood sinking into bone white sand.

Christmas lights strung up by work-worn hands, on a house as old and worn down as the man who built it. Christmas lights glowing with gold's, and blues, and greens that swirled together like the water of the Caribbean sea in his eyes.

When the fever finally broke, as John lay twisting and burning in a hospital bed far away from home, he opened his weary blue eyes; half expecting the pale specter of a man in a midnight colored coat to be standing before him, a gentle smile on his heart shaped mouth.

He awoke, utterly alone.

–

Life back home in London was not as wonderful as he remembered it. Perhaps it was because the city had changed— or perhaps it was because John was no longer the same naïve young man he used to be. Either way, it felt like he was living a pantomime of a life that didn't feel quite right, but it was some thing he had to settle for all the same.

It was hard to feel normal as he limped around the crowded London streets, still harrowed by the horrific nightmares that plagued his nightly dreams. On days where his shabby one room flat felt small, and suffocating, he would grab his cane and make his way to the nearby park for fresh air, and some clarity.

On one such day, as John doggedly made his way toward a particular bench, close to a giant Sycamore, he ran into an old friend from Bart's. Mike Stamford, he said his name was, and they exchanged pleasantries before grabbing some hot coffee, and planting themselves down on John's favorite bench.

Their conversation had taken an interesting turn as John lamented over the less than desirable living quarters an army pension could buy. "C'mon, who would want _me_ as a flatmate?"

–

As soon as John laid eyes on the man asking to borrow Mike's mobile, he knew he had seen him before. A _long_ time ago; when dark chocolate curls, and ever changing eyes were physical traits he always searched for on Christmas days.

His skin was still pale as freshly fallen snow, his sculpted mouth still shaped like a welcoming heart. He still had those ridiculously beautiful cheekbones, and it stung John's pride a bit to see the younger man was still taller than him. His voice had only gotten deeper, and now he seemed more arrogant; cold and distant like the stars they once admired together.

John was sure the man did not remember him, as he proclaimed his name to be Sherlock Holmes, and to meet him tomorrow at 221b Baker street, before popping off with a playful wink and a, 'Good day.' He stayed stood there for a long while after, grinning like a maniac while he savored the universes sick, cosmic joke.

–One year three months later–

vi

Snow and Christmas carols had followed John every where he went that day.

He made his way toward the shiny black door, with the golden numbers that declared 221b– that declared that he was home. He nervously clutched the plastic takeaway bags in his hands, because this was it, this was the day he would remind Sherlock of that Christmas 18 years ago.

John nodded, summoning all of his strength as a former 5th Northumberland Fusilier. He wrenched open the door, and shut it tight against the winter swirling like mad outside; and then made his way up the stairs and into the flat.

He found Sherlock lounging on the couch in his silk dressing gown, like the shah of Persia himself.

"You brought home takeaway. I'm assuming since there is more than one container, you'll be inviting Sarah over for a little 'date'." Sherlock sat up, and frowned while he eyed the bag almost hatefully.

John sighed, exasperated by Sherlock's foul mood ever since he solved his most recent case. "No, you great git, I brought us home some fish n' chips. Now move over so I can sit down too." Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly, but he did as he was told and John sat down; a little closer than normal, which he knew did not go unnoticed by the detective.

He set each Styrofoam container before its recipient, and laid out napkins and little salt, and vinegar packets. _This is it– _John thought to himself– _time to talk to Sherlock about— _

"This logo," Sherlock pointed to one of the napkins absently, while his focus stayed solely on John's care-worn face. "It's from that café we ate at, all those years ago, when we first met." John could practically see the fond nostalgia rippling through Sherlock's clear eyes, as a small smile tugged at his lips.

"You... you remember?"

Their eyes locked, and Sherlock looked pained. "Of– of course I remember John. I... I thought it was you, who had forgotten. I never expected for... for some one like you, to remember some one like me."

Anger sizzled in John's veins at that. "What the hell do you mean by that Sherlock, hm? That an _idiot_ like me just simply can't remember events that happened 18 years ago? That I can't remember feeding you treacle tart just to piss some arrogant bloke off, or recall telling you that I was a bloody fucking mess that night. That we talked about snow and stars, and your fucking beautiful eyes..."

John cut himself off there, a tight constricting feeling in his chest making it hard to breathe. God, he hated crying... warm hands cupped his wet cheeks, and he begrudgingly met Sherlock's gaze again.

"John," his voice was hoarse, and soft as he spoke. "I only meant... that a man as wonderful as you, had no obligation to remember an awful man like me."

He closed his cyan eyes, and his breathing hitched a bit. "How could I ever forget John Watson? Not when from the moment you climbed that tree, to help an arrogant boy free a kite, you had a room–" Sherlock paused, and he pointed to that ridiculously big brain of his, "right here. In my mind Palace, John Watson became a small, warm room that I visited often in my youth. When I was angry at my family, or when I was desperate and at my lowest, begging any one who would listen to help me get my next fix– there, there is where I found my sanctuary."

"If... if I meant so much to you, why did you never come back? I _waited_, waited every Christmas day for four years, but you never showed up. God, how I wanted you to be there, just so I could tell you it was okay. That I didn't care that you kissed me."

Sherlock smiled, though it was small and decidedly sad. "Just because you never saw me, doesn't mean I wasn't there. I could tell you right now, what you wore every year. Where you sat, what you did– I stored it all away, because it made me happy to see you there, waiting for me every Christmas. Until one year... you never showed up.

"I went to Bart's the next day, asked around for you. Mike told me you had enlisted, that you would not be coming back for a long time, if ever. That night, I went home and for the first time since I was a little boy whose best friend had to be put down, I cried John. I wept, to know I may never meet you again, and I let it happen; I let you slip right through my fingers, because I was afraid. I was afraid, because I loved you, I loved that silly, strange young man who accepted me as I was– like no one else ever had."

"When I saw you again, for the first time in 17 years– that was the second time I wept since I was a child. I wept for the death of the carefree boy I met all those years ago. For the stiff postured, broken man you had become. You came back to me John, but you weren't the same. You were battle scarred, and world weary– and I assumed that with the death of your innocence, the memory of me went along with it."

All was quiet after that, while John absorbed all of the sentiment he was not accustomed with coming from Sherlock's mouth, and the younger man merely waiting for John to digest it. "You... you loved me? As in, past tense, or...?"

Sherlock laughed, and pressed his forehead against John's. "I did love you, and I never stopped John."

John smiled, and then he kissed his insufferable flatmate. Their lips pressed together with a hunger built from 18 years of waiting for another taste of this; an all consuming craving that nothing or no one else seemed to ever satisfy. In mere moments, he had Sherlock's silk covered back pressed into the couch and he was straddling the man's slim hips as their chaste kiss grew increasingly more passionate. He pulled away for air, and stared down at Sherlock who looked so perfect beneath him like this.

As the night wore on, and their actions had them relocating to John's bed– he marveled that a man as beautiful, and brilliant as Sherlock Holmes would be worshipping his body with that bloody _gorgeous _mouth of his. He moaned, and writhed while Sherlock claimed him; leaning down to whisper soft confessions against his throat.

"Oh _John... _in my mind, you are a palace. No longer a small, cozy room to hide in when I was lonely and scared– you are all encompassing." Sherlock paused long enough to release a loud, breath taking moan as John raked his finger nails down his pale back. "I– ahhh– I fill the rooms with knowledge I gather from knowing you. I fill them with how you like your tea.

"What your favorite movie is– how you smell after coming in from the rain, and it _ruins_ me John. It makes me want to claim you as _mine_, and never let you go."

John cried out, his orgasm taking hold of every nerve and atom in his body. When reality finally began to seep back in, Sherlock was slumped and panting above him, and there was a burning sensation deep inside the place where they were connected.

After they gathered their wits about them again, they laughed and set about sorting everything out by taking a long, hot shower filled with a lot of snogging, and slippery skin on skin action. When all was said and done, they retired back to John's bed and snuggled comfortably against each other.

Before John succumbed fully to sleep, he felt a wet kiss press against his temple and heard the man he loved above all else– the man he had waited 18 years to hold like _this_– whisper, "Merry Christmas, John." A breath taking smile lit up John's entire face, because for the first time since the death of his father, this Christmas was was perfect.

–Fin–

_Maybe this year I won't be sad on Christmas _

_Maybe I'll have a happy Holiday. _

_Replace my heart ache and my pain _

_With mistletoe and candy canes _

_This Christmas, is going my way. _

_**E/N: the above lyrics are where I drew inspiration for the tone of this piece. While the rest of the song is funny in material, the chorus always makes me feel a little sad. **_

_**I hope that even if it was a/u in delivery, that you all still enjoyed it regardless! Until next time, have a happy Holiday and a great new year. :) **_

Side notes:

Sherlock and John using lines from the show: I wanted to tie in them saying lines like, "What do they usually say," "Piss off," and "It's fine. It's all fine." In my head canon for this story they say those lines again during the events of a study in pink to test one another, and see if one of them remembers that day. I didn't add it in, because of the space issues I'm having with storing this document in my phone.

Sherlock and John's views on sexuality: I have a weird head canon of John being more open to homosexuals as a young man, as opposed to an adult after years in the Military and it just being generally frowned upon. While in my mind Sherlock is okay with being gay, he is also struggling with a point in his life where he still wants people to accept him and so he hides it, not wanting another abnormality of his known. How ever, Mycroft already figured it out years ago.

The line, "In my mind you are a palace,": is a subtle shout out to a great fanfiction by the same title. It is written by TheVenturer, definitely read it– it's bloody brilliant.

Canon bookverse: John Watson's father is mentioned being deceased, so I went with that.

John was stationed many places before Afghanistan, and I chose Africa as one since it is relatively close to England.

John suffered an illness after he was shot, but with the modern medicine of today I chose to portray it as a mere fever.


End file.
